[Canal St. Regular. Regular. Regular:]
Jesus Christ, not this again. You think I'm running some CDC-approved escort service over here? Listen, pal, I’m wired on Instamax and the ghosts of Red Scare podcasts. My "prep regimen" is slamming back a PBR at Kiki’s, trading Baudrillard zingers with a six-foot tgirl deity, and hoping to fuck my way outta this post-woke dystopia. The only injection I care about is the dopamine shot when her nails—painted like a Pariah lyric—dig into my skin. I ain’t some lab rat logging doses on a fucking spreadsheet. This is Canal Street, baby. We run on chaos, regret, and the occasional herpes scare from that one time at 169 Bar. Stay mad.